Unmasked- Act 3- Issue 1- Crux of Happiness
by Thedude2222
Summary: A Gotham novel detailing the end of the legend of Batman.


**Issue 23:**

 **Crux of Happiness**

"One day the universe will die. When that last bit of fire runs out they call it the heat death. You look how far people have come and you wonder what the point is if it's all bound to end someday. All the progress we've made and we're still nothing more than a microscopic blemish on an untouched universe," Jimmy finished his beer looking around the table, "It just makes me sad."

"Hell, it makes me sad I've been married twenty years and my wife still hasn't learned to shut the damn light off when she leaves the room," Frank replied with a deep belch punctuating the statement.

"I'd be happy to leave work without my back spasms seizing up and forcing me to pull my truck over. Thing never stops hurting," Tim added as Dale approached with the next round. The four men stunk of stale sweat after an eleven hour shift at the metal fabrication plant. All four carried iron shavings stuck to their arms and clothes. They worked a trade they very literally took home with them.

"What about you, Dale?" Jimmy asked setting his empty glass on the edge of the table, "What gets you down?" Carefully Dale distributed the beer. He had short, cropped hair and a dirty blond beard covering his face. Relatively new to the group he began welding at the plant a little over a year ago.

"I don't know. Nothing really," Dale responded sipping his lager.

"That's bullshit," Frank replied, "Ain't no man that happy unless he's got a secret."

"I can't tell you where the bodies are buried, Frank," Dale answered and they shared a good laugh.

"Seriously though," Jimmy pressed, "Nothing pisses you off?"

"Well sure stuff pisses me off like bills and traffic, but overall what's there to get upset about? I got a job, my own house, a beautiful wife who is a great cook-"

"He's right," Tim cut him off, "If I had a wife that looked like that I'd never complain again."

"I like to fish and have a stiff drink after work. We live in an incredible country full of opportunity that's rich beyond anywhere else. There's people all over the world eating dirt sandwiches and drinking water from the same river they shit in. Why wouldn't I be happy or at the very least appreciative?" Dale pondered.

"Taxes," Jimmy said.

"In-laws," Tim suggested.

"Fiery hemorrhoids that make your ass scream when you sit on 'em," Frank commented from experience.

"Old age."

"Ungrateful kids."

"ED."

"A shitty 401k."

"A shitty job."

"Shitty neighbors."

"Shitty coworkers?" Dale added ending the lightning round and they toasted shitty coworkers sharing another laugh.

"I see your point but I guess it's a carpe diem type of deal. I only get one life so why shouldn't I enjoy what I've got? Look I admit it's not an easy life doing work like this. How many guys get hurt and disappear with nothing? Where are they going? Not to some office job that's for sure. It's a disability check and TV 'til the end."

"There's no shortage of those stories," Frank agreed, "but where's your outlet? Jimmy has his band and record collection. I drink until my wife looks fuckable and Tim's got his whores."

"Those women are professionals and very generous for the most part," Tim corrected smiling.

"Generous ain't a good enough word for a woman who's gotta suck your warty dick," Jimmy insisted and they laughed.

"Just fishing," Dale assured them, "that's enough for me."

"Fer what?" Tim asked.

"Everything," Dale said suddenly serious, "Doesn't matter really. When you get that bite and you know there's something on the other end. It's a battle of life and death. It's a race to see if you can reel it in before it escapes. There's something…old about it, maybe primal is a better word for it. Hunting is like that too but quicker.

See I think satisfying yourself is a lost art in this day and age. People reject it like it's not good enough or somehow lowers your self worth. To me there's nothing more valuable otherwise why get out of bed? I think people reject it because they're scared of it. Always pushing beyond their means and capabilities, always plotting to rise beyond their station in life."

"Yeah but if everyone was happy how would any innovation or change happen? How would anything get done?" Jimmy demanded.

"How does it get done when they're not?" Dale countered but Frank hushed them pointing at the TVs over the bar. The Gotham Wildcats lined up for a field goal in the red zone to tie the game. The field goal was a fake and the quarterback rolled to fire a fade pass to the receiver. A collective gasp went up from the bar. The receiver caught it but was promptly knocked out of bounds a half yard before the goal line.

"Goddammit!" Frank bellowed along with quite a few others, "Tex Bryan is the worst fucking coach in football!" Dale threw in for his portion and excused himself to head home. The remaining three stayed to lament their choice of team along with other choices in life. Dale's phone buzzed in his pocket on the way out of the bar signaling a reply from an internet message board he frequented.

"This son of a bitch," he mumbled to himself reading the message. It started around a year ago when Dale decided to wade into the muddied, sewage filled river of political discussion. A strictly fiscal conservative possibly leaning libertarian Dale detested the views of fellow forum poster, Swagtownunlimited420, and made it very clear. Swagtown, a staunch Marxist in the truest sense of the word, felt the same about Dale.

A seemingly innocuous exchanged led to a twelve month flame war online over many topics and headlines used as ammo by both sides. They called each other every name in the book and remained replying to each other in the comments thread long after everyone else moved on to other threads and discussions. Neither Dale nor Swagtown refused to give ground or let the other have the last word. For some reason Dale just couldn't quit this exercise in futility.

"Hi honey," Dale called as he entered the kitchen through the garage. His wife Rose was a red headed beauty queen from South Carolina. They met at a church function when he took on the personae of Dale Vitelli over a year ago. They dated for six months and eloped to Vegas on Dale's insistence. Every day when he woke up next to her Dale felt more in love.

"Babe if you were just a few inches taller you'd be walking a runway in Milan," he stated approaching from behind her at the stove.

"Instead I'm cooking you roast beef and spinach…the glamour. Besides my tits are too big for those skimpy dresses," she replied laughing as he kissed her neck.

"I guess I'll just have to deal with the burden of having a wife with big tits," he said sarcastically. They had dinner and talked about her day. Rose worked at the public library and ran a reading program for elementary aged children. Dale loved how easy life was with Rose and how easily he got lost in her gorgeous eyes as blue as the deep ocean.

After a delectable dinner, shower, and passionate sex they laid in bed fingers and legs intertwined talking and joking quietly in the dark. They talked about old TV shows they watched when they were young and good memories with their parents. They talked about a future just the two of them forever. Soon Rose fell asleep and Dale lay awake in his boxer briefs staring at the spinning ceiling fan.

Eventually he got up and silently padded down the stairs to the basement door. The man who walked down those basement steps wasn't Dale Vitelli of 259 Deemont Avenue. He was Victor Zsasz a maniac and famed serial killer of Gotham. Countless times he went on murder sprees only to be caught by Batman, only to escape Arkham again and again. After his most recent escape he tried a new way of killing that proved effective.

In the basement tied tightly to an operating table a young, gagged woman struggled against her shackles moaning pathetically. Conscientiously Victor rechecked his order of blades and tools neatly aligned on the tray next to his victim. Luckily everything looked perfect as he removed the gag from her mouth. She screamed surprisingly loud for someone who hadn't had water in over twenty hours and Victor struck her viciously across the mouth. The basement was soundproofed anyway.

"Please mister! Oh God please!" she begged pointlessly.

"The guys at work are right you know. A man does need an outlet, a way to vent all that frustration that builds. This? Let me tell you this does it. Until all that's left is happiness," Victor explained picking up a boning knife off the tray. Although worn out from work Victor refused to give up on what he loved. Suddenly the door upstairs opened and he heard his wife on the steps.

"Honey, what are you doing down there?" she called.

"Rose, don't come down here!" he ordered tersely.

"Help me!" his victim screamed frantically, "He's going to kill me!" Victor heard Rose slowly descending until she stood in view of him and the young woman.

"Oh my, what's going on here?" Rose asked as his victim cried and moaned.

"Honey, it's not what it looks like," he began.

"I thought we agreed no more blonds?" she demanded testily.

"I know. We did but it was right place, right time type of thing," he apologized, "Plus look at her roots. She's not really even blond." Rose sighed and looked at the now confused victim.

"Fine," she relented, "Let's cut this bitch up."

For the past twelve months the blood ran freely in trickles and torrents underneath Victor's pretty suburban home. Hidden away from the world under his assumed name Victor obsessively practiced his art only to carefully dispose of the piece after completion. Seclusion allowed him an opportunity to courageously innovate and evolve as an artist, to take risks. Torsos hung sedately on hooks like curing meats void of appendages that might keep them swinging and restless.

Wasn't this the truest of creation to build something selfishly and hold it back? Never to be infected by the destructive voices of monetary compensation or critics or worse, censors in horned cowls or ties and briefcases, Victor thought as he watched the knife split the unblemished skin. A rush of blood followed the earsplitting soundtrack of the woman's anguished screams. He lived his hermitic existence alongside an incredibly understanding soul that he loved.

When Rose was young her killings consisted of small animals she stashed in storm drains and the wooded area behind her childhood home. Eventually she grew old enough to sneak out and hitchhike. Being the young, beautiful girl she was Rose found plenty of rides. A devious but cautious killer Rose made sure to stash her victims' vehicles in high crime and drug infested areas then took well planned bus routes back to the suburbs. The day she saw Victor over a platter of sugar cookies and punch at the Methodist church she knew.

Rose didn't recognize him as famed killer Victor Zsasz but as a fellow trailblazer. She saw murder in his steely gaze and on their third date she revealed herself to him. Being the typical nonobservant man he was Victor had no idea of her proclivities but those tendencies only cemented his deep feelings for her. On their fifth date they committed their first murder together. Tenderly Victor extracted the still beating heart of an unconscious prostitute.

He wrapped her hands around it like a hopeless romantic and they kissed deeply as she extinguished the healthy life below them. They married there on the altar of innocent flesh before any certificate was ever signed. She moved in immediately and he taught her the secrets of death, the art of the cut, and the magical power of the pose. They reveled in the creative ecstasy of constructing realistic still lifes. People's death poses could reflect their character in life in provocative and intriguing ways.

Their first argument came in regards to their seemingly shameful secret. Rose felt their art should be shared and spread through the dull, repressed world but Victor understood the consequences of those actions. In various ways he patiently attempted to explain the outcome of such brazen disregard. Society couldn't and wouldn't appreciate such art and they would tirelessly hunt the freethinkers and dreamers. Rose countered that those dreamers helped shape the future they currently inhabited.

She wasn't wrong but to a certain extent she was still an innocent always looking for the best in people and things Victor knew to be lost causes. Honestly Victor couldn't imagine another way but the prison and pain he endured for so long. They never came to an agreement but that night he wrapped his arms around her in bed. Nothing could force them apart he promised, not even such a fundamental difference. Still they loved each other privately with the kind of passion that leads to epic poetry.

"Checkmate," Benny declared leaning back in the seat as Victor stared at the board. Puzzled at his friend's rampant success Victor examined the chessboard rewinding previous moves in his head to try and identify the point where he lost. Frustratingly he discovered he couldn't go back far enough. Benny learned the game overseas but hadn't truly excelled until returning to Gotham Park and the serious chess masters that visited there.

"Why don't you go play with the old men?" Victor suggested.

"I do. They kick the hell out of me daily," Benny laughed, "How do you think I got so good? If you want to know it's the same way anybody gets good at anything. You have your betters teach you how it's done. Carrot and stick method. See you let them beat you over and over until you improve and get stronger.

That's how the army works. They break you down and make you into something stronger, something more useful to them. As you learn and improve the stick hurts less and less while you give them less opportunities to use it."

"So where's the carrot come into play in all of this? Apparently it's nothing but stick," Victor noted.

"That is the carrot," Benny clarified urgently, "Perfection is like abusing a person or an animal. After a while not getting the stick becomes the carrot." Only son to first generation Korean immigrants Benny grew up in Gotham haunted by a heritage over which he had no control. Unsatisfied by secluding himself under the shelter of those like him Benny joined the army at eighteen despite his parents' resistance.

Their despair proved justifiable as the US prepared to invade the Middle East. Luckily Benny returned relatively safe and wiser to the world absolutely pampered in their expensive peace. Part of him raged inwardly at the unappreciated sacrifice his friends made for people who would denounce their actions. Mostly he accepted that people were people no matter what economic rung of the ladder they stood inhabited. A lack of sustenance and resources only made people more dangerous. The higher standard of living could make people happier up to a certain point but there was only so much it could do.

"Look around us. Almost everyone has their heads stuck in their phones. Do they look happier? To me the word sedated seems more applicable. Would Mozart have been a musical genius if he never wrote anything down?" Benny asked. Victor struggled to keep up with his animated friend. His train of thought raced and bounced around void of transparent leaps. Since Victor hadn't known him before the war he couldn't tell if it was a natural quirk or due to some trauma.

"Yes of course. A genius is a genius regardless of recognition," Victor answered confidently.

"Then why did he write it down?"

"To get paid for it and to be recognized," he responded, "the corruption of money and public scrutiny only reduced his abilities to create. Can you imagine the scores he could have written without playing to an audience?"

"No I can't because he never would have," Benny disagreed, "Without some audience or patron to pay for the music he would have spent his time farming beets or shoeing horses. I think you've got it twisted. If we're talking about excelling at something like art of any kind really the point is it's meant to be shared. The entire point of art is to give it away. It's a gift and some gifts are better than others.

Once it goes out to the world it becomes their art and you don't have to worry about it anymore. Why are you worried about this stuff anyway? Dale, I don't play chess with you because of the challenge. I do it because you're a genuinely happy guy. You found that outlet that most don't and it's nice to hang out with someone who's not complaining all hours of the day."

"How's your wife doing?" Victor asked changing the subject. They were approaching something fundamental in Victor's makeup that he didn't want to discuss. Benny sighed and rubbed his knee that still held shrapnel he carried from half a world away.

"She's bad. Fuckin' MS just washes her away. It's like watching somebody age at ten times fast forward. She's so weak and there's nothing to be done about it. She demands that I still come down here in the mornings but anymore…" Benny didn't finish.

"I'm so sorry," Victor offered but Benny shook his head.

"The other thing the army taught me is the inherent unfairness in life. Whether it's a botched airstrike on a school or an impossibly long wait time at the V.A. hospital, most people never get what they deserve. Still some get more than they ever deserve. Every morning I wake up I wonder which one I am." Benny finished and that was that.

As he silently opened the front door back home Victor heard Rose on her cell phone speaking urgently to someone. She paused between statements as he couldn't hear the other end of the conversation.

"He'll know something is going on. It won't work," she whispered.

"I love him. You can't make me do-"

"I know you can find me. You just need to give me time to work this out, please!"

"Yes it's worth everything to me. I understand," she finally hung up and Victor slammed the door calling her name. Rose answered cheerfully from the kitchen. When he entered he saw her ruddy cheeks and tearstained eyes. Gently he took her hands and tenderly kissed her forehead.

"What's wrong?" Victor asked as they sat at the table. With a wrinkled tissue she dabbed at her eyes smiling bravely.

"Something wonderful," she insisted pulling a pregnancy test from the pocket of her thin hoodie, "You're going to be a father, Victor. We're having a baby." The world spun before his eyes and Victor very nearly forgot the conversation he just overheard. His own parents came to mind unbidden and he remembered the feeling of helplessness at their deaths.

"Victor say something," she prompted but he said nothing, not even a frown or smile crossed his face. He desperately and selfishly loved Rose more than he ever thought possible. Victor would kill anyone or endure any trial for Rose. Words didn't exist to explain how much he cared for her however in that moment whether he chose to admit it to himself or not Victor knew deep down he would leave.

"Congratulations," he finally said embracing her, "I love you so much, Rose." He thought of SECURE and the conversation he overheard as he smelled the lilac conditioner in her hair. Undoubtedly they wanted him and his previously safe alias was now corrupted and compromised. Rose was compromised. Everything he built evaporated like fog in the first rays of morning's light. Excitedly Rose fluttered around the house talking about the future and plans for the house.

"Rose, there's something I need to do. Do you mind if I go out for a bit? This whole thing caught me a little off guard," Victor said and she graciously agreed. Less than an hour later Victor sat in the Iceberg Lounge anonymously drinking a double scotch or so he thought.

"Haven't seen you around, Vic," Oswald Cobblepot spoke up behind him.

"Is my disguise that bad?" Victor laughed turning to his old acquaintance.

"Not at all. A full head of hair, some whiskers, most people never look twice, but me, well, I'm not most people."

"You certainly aren't, Oswald," he laughed feeling pretty good from the booze.

"Baby or bankruptcy?" Oswald asked.

"Come again?"

"An entrepreneur like me has to read people, has to look at a man and see what plagues him. The look you're wearing means one of two things, baby or bankruptcy so which is it?"

"Baby," Victor confirmed nodding.

"First?" Oswald asked and Victor nodded again, "Congratulations! Never could myself, cute little scamps. I can tell you're suffering though. You're in good company. Everybody suffers here. It's why we drink and snort powder and murder for recreation. Look at that bar lined with people. Each one their own little Christ in their own little gospel.

Whatever happens you need to get back to what makes you happy. There's not enough of it in Gotham, happiness that is. I guess that's why Calculator sent you this." Oswald laid a folded piece of paper on the table. Slowly Victor picked it up and read it.

"Did you look at it?" he asked.

"Course I did. It's my club. No idea what it means though," Oswald admitted. Victor stood and removed his wallet.

"What do I owe you?"

"On me tonight. After all it's a celebration. Maybe someday you'll buy me a drink."

"Definitely," Victor promised shaking Oswald's malformed hand.

"I know you're not one to get involved in the movement but you should still look out for yourself. SECURE seems to have it out for all of us," Oswald warned thoughtfully and Victor assured him he would. They parted on seemingly good terms.

Out into the cooling night air Victor sauntered to the street where he caught a cab to the East End. At a traffic light under a piss poor streetlamp he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He received another message from his digital nemesis taunting him about the weak Republican nominees for the upcoming primaries.

"Keep talking, asshole," Victor mumbled at the short message from Swagtownunlimited420. Though there was no telling how he knew about the baby, Calculator's congratulations gift was the work address and weekly shift schedule of Brandon Macdonald. At nineteen Brandon currently worked the night shift at an organic coffeehouse called Mugs and Hugs. The store specialized in soy double cappuccinos and pretentious smugness.

At the time Victor didn't understand why he needed to know Brandon Macdonald's work schedule until he reached the bottom of the note that detailed Victor's most frequented website as well as Brandon's user name on that site, Swagtownunlimited420. Victor didn't care how or why Calculator provided this nugget of wisdom. He only cared about this kid choking on his own blood while Victor laughed in his face. Now he sat alone cautiously monitoring the staff.

Under the table he replied to Swagtown's message and patiently sipped the stale tasting coffee. Soon one of the boys in the back removed their phone and shook his head clearly amused. Victor marked his prey, a young man in a black apron with long hair pulled back in a single ponytail face still pocked by the remnants of puberty.

"Hello Brandon," Victor stated cordially when he caught the boy in the back alley toward the end of his shift, "so nice to finally meet you." Brandon was taking out the trash and smoking a supposedly cleaner Native American brand of cigarettes. Warily the kid looked at Victor approaching from the street.

"Who are you, man?" Brandon demanded.

"My name is Dale Vitelli. We've spoken quite a bit. You call yourself Swagtownunlimited420, don't you?" Victor asked earnestly. Brandon backed up against the dumpster clearly alarmed.

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?" he blubbered pathetically.

"I'm here because I don't like the things you've been saying to me on the internet. See, my name isn't really Dale. It's Victor Zsasz," he explained rolling up his sleeves to reveal arms scarred everywhere in marks of five, "I'm a serial killer who works people over in his basement. That's who you've been talking to so I want to know what you have to say now that we're face to face."

"L-look man, I didn't mean any of that crap. I'm not a socialist. I've never even voted. I don't believe in any kind of government. I was just trolling you," he stammered.

"So you're telling me you're one of those people who pokes fun at others and has nothing to stand up for themselves? You cut down others because it's easier than doing something constructive yourself? You spend time hurting and belittling someone else stringing them along for no gain. So here I come trying to have an honest, real dialogue of how to reach our mutual goal of bettering society.

Then you twist those thoughts and ideas making it something to be mocked. A simulated world only existing to amuse you. The greatest tool ever made by man squandered to collect rare pictures of frogs and unhappy looking cats. You freely admit this to me but I have to ask. Is that supposed to make me feel better about coming here? To know I was only played for a fool?" Victor wondered but Brandon couldn't respond reduced to stuttering and moans.

"Here's what's going to happen," Victor began calmly removing the knife from his belt, "You're never going to troll anybody again, right?"

"No, no, never!" Brandon exclaimed.

"You're never going to bother or screw with anybody ever again, right?"

"No, I swear to God, please!"

"And you're going to regret messing with me until the day you die." With that statement Victor brutally plunged the knife into Brandon's stomach. Grabbing the kid by the hair he pulled Brandon's face up to his.

"Are you regretting it yet?" Victor slashed over and over until his arm grew tired. As was tradition Victor marked the kill on his arm with the rest. When Brandon's coworkers found his body sitting on the dumpster the kid was posed with his hands covering the wounds on his stomach. His head was tilted back and his mouth was open as if he belly laughed at the wide world even in death.

Quietly Victor rummaged through the coat closet searching for his bugout bag but he couldn't find it. Rose recently rearranged the downstairs and now nothing was where it should be. Finally he found it stashed above the linens in the laundry room. On the table he opened it up and neatly organized his necessities on the table, passports, fake IDs, cash, toiletries, and more. Midway through checking his weapons he stopped and stared at the picture of the two of them on the kitchen wall.

Victor considered climbing those stairs for one last look at his perfect wife innocent and asleep but decided against it. Too much could go wrong. He could see himself sliding into bed and forgetting it all, SECURE, the baby, the rampant murder. He would be Dale until the day they got fed up waiting and kicked in the door. At best he would be taken away and Rose would lose everything left penniless with a baby on the way. At worst they would haul her in too and she'd birth his child behind steel bars.

Something felt absent in the whole situation. He felt somehow cheated out of something then he wondered if that was really true. Was a temporary happiness worth the pain that came after? Did any happiness exist that wasn't temporary? Who made these consequential decisions regarding such subjective justices? Victor didn't know whether the idea of an all knowing entity was more terrifying than the thought of an empty, senseless world.

"Victor!" Rose started when she turned on the light in the kitchen, "I almost shot you. I thought you were somebody breaking into the house." She lowered his snub nosed revolver to her side.

"Where have you been? I've been worried," she insisted. Slowly he stood and turned to her.

"I needed a drink."

"What's all this stuff? Are you leaving?" Rose demanded in an unbelieving tone.

"I-I don't want to lie to you, Rose," Victor mumbled.

"So you want to be honest but you're leaving me to raise this kid by myself? How stupid is that?"

"I know about SECURE. I heard you on the phone selling me out for the baby. I can understand it though. That's the craziest part of it. I can understand."

"Selling you out? Is that what you think? I was ready to bolt out of here the second you got home. Check the car. The difference is I packed two bags which you could easily have done. No, it's not SECURE. It's the baby. That's why you're running. Admit it!" Rose's nostrils flared and her eyes grew fiery. There was nothing he could say. After a dead silence she turned covering her mouth as tears rolled down her face.

"See here's the thing," she finally turned back smiling with wet cheeks, "There's no guarantee you'll stay gone. Maybe when the kid is five or fifteen you might show back up after some half assed change of heart. I don't want my baby wondering about a father who may or may not come back to them. Better their father be dead than a man who doesn't want them. If you want me to make a choice between this baby's happiness and yours that's not much of a choice at all." Rose raised the gun and shot him in the leg.

Sometime later Victor lay strapped onto his own operating table while Rose set up a camera in the corner. Though her hand shook she expertly began cut after shocking cut while he wailed to a god in which he didn't believe. Tears ran down her face and he saw she took no pleasure in it.

"R-Rose, SECURE they'll w-want me," he cried between the agony.

"Oh they will," she agreed, "they said a video and a little piece of you was enough like an ear or a finger. They offered me amnesty to live a regular life. All I had to give them was you but I couldn't. I wouldn't. I'd give up everything for you and you couldn't even say goodbye."

"I l-love you Rose. Don't do this, please!"

"I love you too. You should feel proud," she suggested, "It's every father's job to give up his life for the life of his child. His hopes and dreams and needs…when that baby is born nothing else in the whole world matters. You would tear down everything you ever loved for them. That's what gets you out of bed in the middle of the night and keeps you alert during the day.

I love you so much but it's not just us anymore. We can't ride off into the sunset without a future to ride towards." Rose cut deep and the blood wept profusely. Professionally she split his skin like he taught her and it was a much different experience for him. Victor howled as well as any previous victim on his table. Sorrowfully he lamented everything constantly proclaiming his shortcomings like so many before him.

When Rose was confident of his regret, when she was sure of his deep, utter sincerity she kissed him on the forehead and cut out his tongue.


End file.
